


takes a little time; a little perseverance.

by pictureperfectwatermelon



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Biting, Bittersweet, Bonding, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor Lives AU, Death, Delusions, Dissociation, Family, Gen, Graphic Description, Hospitals, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 07:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12930162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pictureperfectwatermelon/pseuds/pictureperfectwatermelon
Summary: He comes home most days, early from work. It’s part of his Being a More Hands On Father plan. Comes home and asks his wife how her day was. Checks in on Zoe, who’s struggling with her calculus homework. Connor though. Connor is a little different. It’s been hard to approach Connor.--“Connor?” He calls. He might be in his room, lounging around and staring at the ceiling.(Or, otherwise titled, "Tree Bros is Fun, but Happy, Functioning Murphy Family Unit is Much More Fun".)





	takes a little time; a little perseverance.

**Author's Note:**

> this isnt about any romantic relationship. this is about larry and connor and mending their broken relationship. tree bros is fun, but a happy, functioning Murphy family unit is much more fun.  
> please take note of the tags. "graphic description" tag and "death" tag kind of go together (graphic descriptions of death), but nobody actually dies. delusions are mentioned once. dissociations are mentioned a couple times but never described in detail.  
> let me know if anything else should be tagged.

The Murphy family was trying to pull themselves back together. It would be a long, slippery, steep hill towards anything near ‘ _Happy Family_ ’, but they would get there someday.

Mending the broken trust, the hurt feelings and the broken ceramics in the house all had to start somewhere. Trying to understand a mentally ill, struggling, paranoid teenage son also had to start somewhere. Larry knew, his relationship with his son was rocky. It was light years away from _perfect_ , and a great distance from _good_. But if they wanted to start making up for lost time, and go the distance, it would take steps, no matter how little.

So he comes home most days, early from work. It’s part of his Being a More Hands On Father plan. Instead of avoiding reality and his familial problems, he comes home early when he can to settle down and actually see his children. Comes home and asks his wife how her day was. Checks in on Zoe, who’s struggling with her calculus homework, even if it’s only to joke around and struggle with her. So far, he thought it was going pretty well. Cynthia seemed much more satisfied in their relationship, and being able to actually _see_ each other for more than a couple hours before he whisks himself off to work is improving their marriage. Zoe says he’s being “ _overbearing,_ ” but whenever he stops by her room to help with homework or listen to her practice, or even listen in on the weird gossip between her and her friends, she gets a small smile on her face.

Connor though. Connor is a little different. It’s been _hard_ to approach Connor without the tension of their wrecked relationship hanging above them. Every attempt to reach out to his son is met by cold, one word answers, and sometimes no answers at all. Larry tries not to take it too personally, though. He did just come out of the psychiatric ward, and he was acting uncharacteristically quiet for the past week. He wasn’t deemed ready to go back to school, so he spent a lot of time with Cynthia at home.

Back to the present, with Larry coming home early. It’s about 5:22 PM, and he opens the door and sets his briefcase down to begin untying his shoes and placing them on the rack. He walks into the house, passing what used to be their family computer desk. He sets his briefcase next to the reclining chair. As he’s undoing his tie, he notices it’s silent in the house. Cynthia isn’t home. Usually she’d be starting dinner around this time, or at least be somewhere around the house, folding laundry, calling friends or fussing over Connor. But he didn’t hear the telltale sound of his son whining, and his wife ragging on him. That meant Cynthia had left to do something. That was fine, give him some time to relax on his own, maybe click on the TV and not think about anything. Zoe was at her jazz band practice, and would be back around 6:40, if she didn’t loiter around with her friends.

As he flips through TV channels, this feeling of guilt begins to creep up on him. He knows, he knows. He didn’t really think about what Connor might be doing. Sure, the man’s trying his best, but Cynthia still takes the role of taking care of Connor. Connor just won’t talk to him besides short phrases, and can only care to look annoyed whenever he came around. It was nothing but frustrating, kind of disheartening. Larry was trying all he could to start their relationship anew, but it seemed as though Connor wasn’t putting any effort to try it. Larry sighed. Still, he should check on his eldest child. He begins to trudge up the steps.

“Connor?” He calls. He might be in his room, lounging around and staring at the ceiling. He usually takes up doing that in his past time. Larry’s not sure if it’s because he’s actually so bored out of his mind, or if it’s because he’s just so _depressed_ that he can’t muster the strength to do anything else. He wants to believe it’s the former rather than the latter, but it’s wishful thinking.

“Connor? Just checking in on you. I won’t.. Barge into your room if you just want some privacy, okay? Just here to let you know..” He slides on the polished hardwood floor to Connor’s door. “I’m home. I just want to make sure you’re okay, that you don’t need anything..” He reaches out to the door handle and turns it, slowly, trying not to make too much noise. He then pushes the door open, holding his breath. But--Connor isn’t in his room.

Of course, the first thing he thinks is, _"Well, Connor's_ _done it. He’s probably gone off, sick of being cooped up in the house all day, and got some weed._ ” He’s expected that, he knows how to bust him for it. It’s understandable, any growing boy would feel restless stuck in his room alone. Connor needs some space to run around, be a little free, but that doesn’t mean he runs off without telling anyone. It definitely doesn’t mean he turns to illegal substances, either. He slides his phone out and sends a quick text to Cynthia, who he assumed was either out looking for him, with him, or uninformed about the disappearance of her son.

 

**LARRY**

Hi Cynthia. Just asking if you knew what Connor was up to today.

**CYNTHIA**

What Connor was up to ? What do you mean

**LARRY**

Well, he’s not exactly in the house right now.

**CYNTHIA**

No, I have no idea where he could have ran off to.. Will you go look for him?

**LARRY**

Yes, of course.

**CYNTHIA**

Thank you honey .

I’m just shopping for a few things real quick . Realized our pantry was nearly empty, and we were in need of some supplies, if you know what I mean .

**LARRY**

D:

**CYNTHIA**

Oh - Grow up Larry !

See you soon honey, please find Connor !

**LARRY**

Can do.

 

Larry pockets his phone and begins his search around the house. He’s found clues of where Connor could have ran off to before, just by examining some stuff he left lying around. Usually when he was in for a fix of weed, he’d be too frantic and in his own mind to cover his tracks. Larry used that to his advantage.

Walking around the second floor, though, there doesn’t seem to be too much out of place. For some reason, Zoe’s door to her room is cracked open, and some photos she had sitting on her nightstand were moved around her room. The photos on her nightstand was just a cute, teenage picture of her and her friends after an especially successful recital. Larry smiles at the memory. His daughter was a brilliant musician, and while he could never hold that talent, and he’s not going to lie, he’s a little jealous.. He’s just happy she does. Not to mention, her voice is just as amazing as her guitar skills. Her friends are all around nice people, except for when they have their bad days, which Larry was been around for. Zoe bothered because Laura said some off comment that she couldn’t tell was supposed to be an insult or not. Zoe angry because Lexi had a huge fight with her closest friend, Kaylyn, and it pissed her off. But everyone had bad days, and in the end, they were one big happy group. Larry’s heart swelled with pride. _Why would Connor move that photo? Why would he pick it up in the first place?_ It’s lying on Zoe’s bed.

Her bookshelf has been tampered with too. Most of the photos lying on her bookshelf are small polaroids, or small framed photos. A couple of them are old, and there’s three polaroids that are fairly recent. About five of them have been moved from their original position, he can tell by the small, dustless area on the shelves where the frame stands used to stand were. The one that catches his eye though, is two _extremely_ old photos.

The first one is a small framed photo of him and Zoe from 2006 when they went on a huge road trip across some places upstate New York. This particular photo was snapped in Woodstock. He remembers, it was a pleasant day. The sun was out and there was a gentle sway of breeze. At the time, Zoe’s obsession was fairies. She was into building fairy homes, making fairy food, and dressing like fairies, convinced it would conjure them, or at least appease them. Connor openly stated it was stupid, which Cynthia berated him for, but he still obliged and played with her. In the photo, they were standing right in front of a creek in the woods, Zoe smiling into the camera, holding back a laugh with Connor hanging off her shoulders and making a silly face. There was some dirt on Connor’s cheeks, and Zoe’s hair after they got into a playful mud fight while building a fairy house. Right after the photo Cynthia sent them back to the Inn they were staying at to wash it off, trying to avoid contracting any disease or sickness, but Larry thought it was a pretty cool photo. He also thought Zoe was kind of a badass for throwing around fistfulls of mud at Connor relentlessly. This photo was displaced on the second highest tier in the bookshelf.

The next photo that was out of place was a weird polaroid of him and Cynthia before they were married. They both looked so _young,_ and for a moment, Larry yearns for youth. (But who doesn’t wish to be young again?) Cynthia is laughing, opened mouthed, her head titled back. Larry is smugly smiling into the camera. He told her some funny, kind of dark joke. Cynthia thought it was absolutely hilarious and in the moment, Larry, being the loser and weirdo he was, snapped a photo. Around this time, him and Cynthia were flirting, and had been on dates a couple times before. They weren’t really serious, in fact, it took a while because Cynthia liked playing hard to get. When Zoe pulled this photo out the box, she was immediately enthralled by it. Larry and Cynthia couldn’t understand why, but she held the photo in her hands like it was the Answer. She then asked if she could keep it in her room, and even though both adults were confused, they let her. It was odd, but it wasn’t harming anyone. After a while, Cynthia began to look into the gesture, thought it was something sweet. A weird, backwards way of saying “ _I_ _love you_ ” to her parents. Maybe she envied their relationship. Larry let her think what she wanted, but didn’t speculate. Zoe was like Connor in a couple ways, and one way was, you could never guess _why_ she did some of the things she did. You may believe it to be one thing, such as envy, or love, but it was probably something entirely different.

He couldn’t understand why Connor would want to move these pictures. Why he picked them up and most likely, looked at them. Why he would want to go into Zoe’s room anyway, because he knew if she found out, she’d go nuts. She’d yell at him just as badly as he would yell at her, and then she’d be up for the better half of the night, looking around her room to check if he’d stored his stash of weed in his room, or took something. Larry does his son a solid, and returns the photos to their original resting place. He exits the room, leaving it with a quiet _click_ as he shut the door closed. Where to next?

He went to the second floor bathroom. From the window in that bathroom, you could get a pretty clear look into the backyard. He opened the door without knocking, hoping Connor wasn’t taking a dump or something else equally as embarrassing, and walked in. To his relief, and also slight disappointment, Connor was not in the bathroom. No matter, he’d continue searching. He pushed back the little curtains on the bathroom window and peeked into their backyard. Nobody was there. The lawn looked the same as it did yesterday, and the day before. An old, deflated ball from some kids messing around in the neighborhood in the corner of the plot of land. Some pots of flowers maintained by Cynthia. Mostly, it was overgrown weeds and grass. He could get around to cutting it, now that he wasn’t spending extra, unneeded hours at the firm. He can schedule that later, though. Right now, he needs to find his son.

Fastest method--Larry didn’t think of until now. Calling him. Kids were always connecting to their phones, correct? Texting, tweeting, Instasnapping. He’d just call him, and wait for him the respond. So he called. One ring, three rings, five rings, voicemail. _Huh._

One more floor to check. The third floor. That was where Cynthia and Larry’s rooms were located. Chances were slim to none that he’d actually be on the third floor, but he thought, _why not?_ So Larry begins to walk up the steps to the third floor, taking the staircase two steps at a time.

The lights were off, and it looked to be in the same condition he left it in when he woke up in the morning. Cynthia normally got up before him so she could start making everyone breakfast. Larry argued that their children were old enough to make their own breakfast but Cynthia insisted in doing it for them, even if it was something like Cheerios and milk. Larry decided he would just quickly change into something more casual, then continue his search for Connor around the neighborhood. He’d call at 7 if he came up with no results.

Larry briskly enters his room, and nearly lets out a sigh of relief upon seeing everything in order. He’s trying to be patient, but if Connor had rifled through his or his wife’s belongings, he can’t lie, he’d probably lose his temper a bit. Happy to see everything in it’s place, he slides open his drawer and pulls out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He yanks the already loosened tie off his neck, and leaves it folded on his small tie rack. He then begins to change and discard his work clothes into the hamper. Larry almost leaves the room, but suddenly feels himself becoming a tad self conscious about his hair--A self consciousness that is _normal,_ for a man his age, and not something to be poked fun at, because hair loss is embarrassing. So he enters their shared bathroom, and checks his hair in the mirror just to primp a little bit, and try to evaluate whether his hair looked especially thin. It did not, luckily, so he leaves the baseball cap behind, and continues searching for Connor. Except--

You see, two days ago, his wife received some sort of beauty kit in the mail. It came in this medium sized, white box, with the logo printed on the side. Excitedly, she snatched the box from the front door and rushed upstairs. Zoe stared at her and said, _"O_ _h my gosh, mom, you are crazy._ ” and Cynthia just shushed her. It was one of those weird days, where Connor would just stare into the distance, eyes unseeing, never giving more than one word answers, and occasionally, breaking out into tears. So instead of bristling at Zoe’s usage of the word crazy, like he sometimes did, he just stared down at the kitchen table. Larry eyed his son, but then directed his attention to his wife. Cynthia walked up the steps, box in hand, he guessed, to go open it. He just shrugged and opened the paper again, waiting for her to come down and barely be able to hold back gushing about it.

Cynthia did come back downstairs, but with a purpose. She began opening and closing drawers, muttering to herself.

“ _W_ _hat are you looking for?_ ” Zoe asked her.

_"Oh. Those scissors. You remember the big scissors, with the red handles..? There’s this packaging that’s.. A pain in the neck to open with the regular ones. The big one should do the job though."_

_"Oh, yeah. I know where they are,"_ Zoe replied, and she walked towards what used to be the family computer desk, now turned the family place-miscellaneous-items-and-papers desk. She pushed aside some of the papers on the desk before uncovering the scissors with _"Ah-ha!"_ then handing them to her mother. Cynthia smiled and thanked her, then rushed back up the stairs.

Those big red scissors have not returned to the family computer desk now turned the family place-miscellaneous-items-and-papers desk. Larry remembers still seeing them in their shared bathroom this morning, in fact. Lying there, next to some packaging that Cynthia forgot to throw away. Big, sharp, tough scissors that could cut through nearly any material. It cut through zip ties with near ease. No doubt it could cut through _skin_ as well. Panic begins to well up in Larry’s mind.

 

Scissors that could cut through skin that was previously left on their shared bathroom is no longer in the shared bathroom. This can only mean a couple things.

 

1 Cynthia returned those scissors to their original resting place while Larry was at work, and his eyes just weren’t what they used to be, which is why he failed to notice them when passing the desk.

2 Cynthia.. For some reason.. Needed the scissors for grocery shopping..?

3 Connor had them.

 

It’s obvious which option seems most viable. Connor has gotten a hold of the big, sharp scissors. He entered their room when no one was home, saw the blade gleam in the light, and snatched them. Worse part is, Larry has no idea where his son is. Not even a single clue, as to where his son could have ran off to, with said scissors in his hands. He was hoping Connor’s near month stay at the hospital would have decreased his suicidal tendencies, but he may be wrong. It may have only _increased_ them, because _cutting_ himself to death is much more brutal than overdosing. He’s got the scissors. His son, Connor, has a hold of the scissors. His _suicidal_ son, Connor, has a hold of dangerous, sharp scissors. Larry’s heart beat picks up pace, and he can barely think straight. _What if he can’t reach his son on time? Where is he? What if--_ What if that’s why he didn’t pick up his phone. He didn’t pick up his phone because--Larry dials Connor’s number again. One ring.. Three rings.. Five rings.. Voicemail.

“Connor, please answer your phone. I--I don’t know where you are right now, and I’m. I’m trying to find you, okay? Just, call me back. If you get this. Call me back.”

His voice is choked up, he can barely force the words out. He has to--He can’t. If. Connor is. He can’t. He _can’t_ be. No. No, no, _no, no, no_

 

He has to find him.

 

Running a hand through his hair, and letting out a shaky exhale, he begins his search for Connor again, but far less lax attitude. He has to find his son as soon as possible, before anything can get out of hand. Things in the house were _just_ starting to look around, even if Connor spent more nights locked up in his room, pulling at his hair and muttering to himself. Even if he cried for seemingly _no reason,_ at the most random times. Because, at least, he wasn’t out there with _God knows who,_ smoking weed or pot, or snorting _coke_ like he used to back in freshman year. At least he’s not driving _high of his ass,_ putting himself at risk to get in a car accident. He’s not screaming at Zoe, banging on her door, knocking things over and putting holes in the wall. It’s because physically he’s become too weak to, sure, but _still._ Things in the house were just starting to look up, he felt like they were really getting somewhere, and _this. No. No, no, no, no, no,_

His socked feet slide on the hardwood floor, and he holds his hand out to the wall so that he does not slam into it. Where could he be? Where could a distressed, suicidal, paranoid teenager, with a pair of scissors, run off to? Connor already tried the park on his first attempt, he wouldn’t try it again, would he? They’d already know where to search. He runs to the little window at the end of the hall that’s facing their lawn. There’s nobody out there. The neighborhood is calm, and then sun is preparing to set. A flock of birds fly across the sky in the distance, and a squirrel runs up a power line.

“Connor?” He asks, raising his voice louder than before, a little more alarmed and panicked than before. “Connor!”

He slams open the guest room, but it’s cold and empty. No sign of Connor anywhere. Just the spare bed, and the round, soft carpet they’d put down.

He’s checked _every_ room in the house. Literally, every single room. From the first floor all the way to the third. If he wasn’t in the house, that did _nothing_ to narrow down his location. Larry realized, after one talk with Connor’s therapist from the hospital, that they really knew _nothing_ about their son. Not one, single, true fact that they hadn’t already known before high school. With the gift of the car in his junior year, he already had a year plus some to find other places to get away to. Other hidden places around the neighborhood. Maybe a different park, in a tree, behind a playground, in a bush. Larry felt the urge to barf creep up on him. There was no way he’d ever find his son. It was over. It was too late. They’d have to call the police again, have them search for him, and by the time they find him, this time for _sure,_ there would be nothing but a cold, bloody, dead body. _No. No, God please, please, no._ Larry felt his knees buckle and the world spin and his brain scramble and a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face. The walls creeped in on him and the whole world squeezed him like he was an overflowing box that it was attempting to shut closed with duct tape. _It’s over. It’s too late. It’s too late, you’ve messed up, you incompetent, cold-hearted monster, couldn’t even save your own son. So caught up in your job, and your pride, and being right all the time. You could never_

  
  


The basement.

  


The basement.

  


The last place he didn’t check was the _basement_.

 

His legs immediately push him into motion, ignoring the tears threatening to spill from his eyes and how _shaky_ his legs were. He had to check, he had to check no matter how in vain it was.

Their basement is unfinished. It was supposed to be something akin to a ‘Man Cave’, except pretty much all of the family agreed ‘Man Caves’ were stupid and pointless, and just served to enforce more harmful gender roles and stereotypes. So it was more of a ‘Family Cave’ than a ‘Man Cave’. It was intended for his children to be able to bring home large groups of friends and have somewhere to hang out that was inside the house. This way they could eat a snack, maybe play some games or watch TV. Their rooms could probably fit one or two people, but the basement would be able to fit far more. Zoe was always a social butterfly, and she would have five to seven girls she would hang around all the time. He thought it would benefit her the most. Cynthia thought it could be a good place to stick Connor when his temper got out of control.

Pipes are exposed on the ceiling, along with some wood and foundations of the house itself. The floor was done, so it was even and for the most part, cleaned, but the walls still had lots of room for work. There was two tables in the basement, one mini table and one big table for actually sitting down and eating. They had tall stools down there as a placeholder until they decided upon what chairs they wanted. Only one of the dingy light bulbs was on, haphazardly hanging from the ceiling. _Someone is down here._ Larry tiptoes around the basement, trying not to alert anyone of his presence. Another light was on. The light in the unfinished bathroom.

“Connor..?” He called out. There was no response, but Larry heard the quiet _snip, snip,_ sound of scissors. He let out a huge sigh of relief. The hammering in his heart slowed considerably, and the tension in his shoulders dropped. He was okay. He was alive. _He’s okay. He’s alive. It’s okay._

“Connor, you’re mother and I have been looking for you for like the past _hour._ I called you like three times! What are you--” He opens the door to the bathroom to see his son holding the pair of scissors to his head.

It must be one of Connor’s weird days because his eyes are glossed over and wide open. His face is extremely pale and kind of sweaty, and his eyes are red from recently shed tears. Although the visual of holding scissors to his head is threatening, his hand is shaking uncontrollably. Connor has on the same oversized white t-shirt he wore at the beginning of the week and the same sweatpants. The shirt slips off his left shoulder, and pools around his right shoulder, where his arm is raised. It gives off this allusion that he is _young,_ a mere child. Like back when he used to put Larry’s tie around his head and try to look professional by wearing his work shirts and shoes, but he was swimming in the button-up. It made for an adorable picture, and afterwards, Larry picked him up and swung him around, saying, “ _Well aren’t you a handsome little lawyer?_ ” Now, though, Connor just looked small. Not a cute, babyish small, but a frail, _lost,_ small.

_Your hair,_ He thinks, but he doesn’t say, because Connor is still snipping and cutting away at his hair. What used to be long, dark, wavy locks of hair was short, and choppy from Connor’s butched haircut. Strands of cut hair fell around the floor, and on his shoulders and in the broken sink in front of him. The hair he was so determined to grow out when he hit 6th grade. Even when Larry warned him people would make fun of him, or call him names, and suggested a shorter cut to fit in with the other boys. Connor just shrugged and said, “ _I don’t care what other people think._ ”

Larry snapped out of his trance, realizing he needs to take evasive maneuvers before it got too far. He knew Connor wasn’t thinking _right,_ at the moment, and he’d snap out of it and regret cutting his hair. He reached behind his son and grabbed his right arm, pulling it away from the side of his head. Surprisingly, Connor made no effort to try and pull back.

“Hey, hey, buddy,” Larry said, using his softest voice. “Let’s put these down, okay? We can get you a haircut if you’d like, Connor. All you have to do is tell me, or your mother. We can arrange for that, but not this. Not this.” He tried to pry the scissors out of Connor’s hands, but he was holding on pretty tightly. He grappled with Connor’s fingers, before the tell-tale _clatter_ of the scissors hitting the counter alerted him of their release. Connor slumped over, and Larry swiftly caught him before he fell to his knees.

“I was worried sick about you. Cynthia and I didn’t know where you ran off to. You were down here, huh?” _I better get this place locked up.._ “Let’s go back upstairs. Do you think you can walk?”

 

Eventually, he and Connor made it back up the steps, and into the safe confines of Connor’s bedroom, where Larry let him sit on his bed. Connor curled up, legs pressed against his chest, furiously biting at his thumbnail and the skin around it. Larry let him be, unsure how to intervene.

It was moments like this, that really brought him down to reality. Moments like these that made him want to be there for his family, to strive to do his best, but also pushed him away. Because, _how,_ how does a father see his son so low, obviously hurting, and be able to witness that without feeling sick? Without feeling like he’s failed, completely, utterly. Without wanting to cower in fear of what the result of his parenting became? Zoe didn’t turn out this way. She’s not _showing signs of borderline personality disorder,_ she doesn’t have _major depression_ and she isn’t struggling with _generalized anxiety disorder._ He feels trapped on the outside, watching everything happen inside. Everytime he reaches out he’s met with a cold glass. He watches Connor have his panic attacks, or fall apart because of some delusional belief he has, and feels useless. The overwhelming, stabbing, empty feeling of _uselessness_ drowns him. It freezes him in place. He watched Cynthia frantically try to keep her son from tearing out his hair, or watches Zoe leave the room because he’s raising his voice, and Larry just freezes in place and stares. Watches everything go by. Then, by the time he’s come to, Connor has locked himself in his bedroom and Cynthia is sitting in front of it, holding her head and crying. And despite having done nothing, exhaust washes over him, and all he wants to do is sleep.

“C-Connor.. Connor, stop that. Put--Get your hands out your mouth.” Connor doesn’t respond, or act like he’s heard what he said at all. He continues biting at his thumb, and Larry can see a piece of skin getting pulled up.

“Connor, are you listening to me? Connor. Connor. _Connor._ ” In moments like these he _wants_ to scream and yell and argue. He _wishes_ Connor had a particularly nasty attitude, or called Zoe a _cunt,_ or smoked weed. That way, he could punish his son. Yell at him, tell him, _You’ll get nowhere in life if you continue on this trend._ So _naive;_ back then he didn’t realize Connor didn’t plan on going anywhere in life because he didn’t plan on _living it._

He can’t yell now. Or argue. The last time he tried to raise his voice when Connor was in one of these weird moods, Connor just cowered and tugged at his hair, legs pulled up to his chest. Rocked himself back and forth, sort of screaming with his mouth shut. Larry cringes at the memory. He pointed at their son and looked to Cynthia. He said,

 

_"He_ ’s _acting like a child, Cynthia. Look at that. He doesn’t even want to face what he’s done wrong._ ”

And Zoe rushed forward, and in a brave act, grabbed his arm and pulled him to face her. Her eyes were a fountain of tears, and her whole face was red. She was sniffling, it was the only other thing he could hear over Connor’s screaming. Zoe, a total, disheveled mess, but so _angry,_ absolutely _furious_ with her father.

"Dad. _Connor literally just got back from the fucking hospital, like, two days ago. And you’re on his ass for sleeping in. Dad, CONNOR TRIED TO KILL HIMSELF TWO WEEKS AGO. IF WE HADN’T FOUND HIM ON TIME, HE’D BE STONE COLD FUCKING DEAD. AND YOU’RE ON HIS ASS, BECAUSE HE FUCKING SLEPT IN TILL FOUR IN THE FUCKING AFTERNOON.”_

She said, an iron _grip_ on Larry’s rolled up work shirt sleeves. She _shook him,_ literally _shook him_ by his sleeves. She yelled, screamed, cried her voice hoarse, jabbed her finger on his chest, yelled some more. Her whole face was red with anger, and so much pent up emotion. The whole time Connor was admitted to the hospital, she was stuck in a limbo. Between crying herself sick over her brother’s attempted suicide, or sucking up. Confused, because all he did was _hurt her, yell, scare her,_ but a small part of her, a small part the evidently _grew,_ openly ached for the return of her brother. For him to get better. For him to become a part of their lives again. For him to _smile,_ and make _stupid jokes,_ and playfully tug her ponytails. Make funny faces at her in the backseat of the car during road trips. Roll his eyes and tell her, “ _Fairies aren’t real._ ” But immediately suggest good places to build fairy houses. To sit at the edge of her bed and _praise her,_ or at least, _at the least,_ actually hear her play her guitar. Because that nearly became a reality. Because if they hadn’t found him so soon, he’d _never hear her play._ If they hadn’t found him so soon, he’d be _dead._

“Connor.. I..” He sighs. “I admit. I’m struggling..” He walks over to his son and sits on his bed. He reaches over, one arm around Connor’s shoulder, and the other hand focusing on slowly pulling his thumb away from his mouth.

“W-With.. What to do. I don’t know.. How to take care of you. Or. Well, I know how to take care of a kid. I know how to take care of a regular kid. But you. Um.. You’re not like a regular kid. It’s.. You need something different. I can’t just..” He successfully removes his thumb from his mouth, but this only encourages Connor to begin to furiously scratch at his hand. Larry grabs both of Connor’s arms and holds them down to the bed. His kid squirms in his grasp, trying to get loose.

“Tell you to toughen up when some brat pokes fun at you. Or yell at you for snorting coke and expect your addiction to go away. Or.. Uhm.. Ignore everything and label it a phase.” Short, panicked whines begin to vocalize, and Larry quickly scans the room. He stand again and takes long strides to Connor’s desk and picks up two cans of the putty his doctor at the hospital gave to him. He then returns to the bed and unscrews the cap on the yellow one, and forces it into Connor’s hands.

“I don’t understand BPD, or GAD, or depression very well. Er, no, depression I pretty much get, but BPD is.. From what I’ve heard, it’s going to be a tough one to take on. I’m not going to understand it well at first.” Connor is sort of attacking the putty, ripping it apart and into tiny pieces, then smashing it back together into one big, cohesive piece. His eyes are wildly searching around his bed sheets, until they catch sight of the second can of putty. His arm shoots out and Larry moves a little to let him grab it.

“That’s not an excuse. That, because I don’t understand stuff, I’m going to just be an asshole. I already tried that. And..” _Look where it got us._ “I’m done. Trying to pretend I know the answers, or, o-o-r, like I’m not parenting hard enough. That I just need to play more baseball games with you. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been trying, lately. And I’ll never be perfect, but I’m trying to be the dad _you_ need, not the dad _I_ think you need.”

Connor doesn’t respond. In fact, he doesn’t even raise his head to indicate he’s heard anything. He’s just in his own world again, ripping and tearing putty, then rolling them together into a green, wet, shiny putty amalgamate. It’s kind of strange, but it’s much better than scratching at himself until he bleeds, or biting his cuticles. Larry sighs, then leans back into Connor’s headboard.

After watching him mess around with putty for the next 10 minutes, Larry nearly doses off, before Connor turns his head slightly towards him and says, “I’m sorry for cutting my hair.” His voice is fragile, it’s scratchy, and barely there. It jolts Larry alert, and he leans forward.

“No. No, it’s okay, don’t apologize.” Silence. “Just. Uhm. No more going through other people’s stuff without their permission, alright?” Connor just nods.

“Thanks for the putty.”

“Right. You don’t have to thank me.”

 

“Please help me.” Connor says, his voice a little whiny and tearful.

“H-Help.. You?” Connor nods.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I can’t be _normal._ The medication--It should be.. It should be doing that, right? But why isn’t it.. It’s not..”

“Is your medication not working the way you think it should?” Connor shakes his head.

“Do you.. We can go get that checked out as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.” Connor barely whispers. Larry just nods.

 

Larry then pulls his son close to him, then envelops him into a hug. His arms are freezing, and Connor is still noticeably shaking. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reciprocate the hug, not that Connor ever does. His neck is half exposed due to the messy nature of the haircut. Half of his hair is a couple centimeters below his ear, while the other half is a couple inches above his shoulders. He’s never given teen Connor a hug. The last time Larry gave Connor a hug, like a _real, actual_ hug was the summer leading up to middle school.

“I love you, son,” He whispers.

Larry comes home most days, early from work. It’s part of his Being a More Hands On Father plan. Instead of avoiding reality and his familial problems, he comes home early when he can to settle down and actually see his children. He’s trying to mend his broken relationship with his son. And for the first time in possibly _years,_ it doesn’t seem like a lost cause.

 

_This year we make a new start._


End file.
